


Message Sent

by TheConsultingStepladder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Oneshot, Post Reichenbach, Resolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheConsultingStepladder/pseuds/TheConsultingStepladder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John keeps sending those texts, even though he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Message Sent

“You nearly ready love?” he called from the couch.

A muffled ‘Almost!’ came from behind the bathroom door and the soft hiss of the shower.

John fiddled with the remote, recording things for later and flicking through the channels blindly while he waited for his spouse to reappear.

He was fidgeting, knowing it was probably going to be another few minutes before they left the house and he was already fully dressed. Eventually he settled on a documentary channel to pass the time.

The credits were rolling on a show about shark attacks when the overly dramatic narrator began his announcement.

_“How did a surgeon end up dead at the operating table and how did the security guard miss a body hidden in his own station? Next on another chilling episode of Unsolved: The Case Files.”_

John smiled wryly. He heard echoes of a disdainful voice in his head. It had been a long time since he’d been able to watch a show like that and remain none the wiser by the end of it.

He couldn’t help making his own guesses and coming to his own conclusions and some of them didn’t sit half bad. Occasionally he’d even considered ringing Greg up to shed some new light on these long dead cases, but stopped himself short realising that as much as he had known the man, he was not him.

The doctor’s fingers twitched next to his jeans pocket. He didn’t realise he’d put it there, his thumb leaning on the ridge of the phone.

Sighing he pulled it out and tapped out a message.

'Surgeon found dead on operating table. Unsolved. Reckon you'd have it before dinner.'

**Sent.**

The phone remained silent as John absent mindedly rubbed his fingers over the cover.

Adverts were all blurring into one and he realised he really wasn’t paying attention.

'Guard didn't notice a body in his own security booth, that one's got to be an 8 at least?'

**Sent.**

It was then that something caught his eye and he saw the fringe of a scarf come into view.  
Mary stood with her coat and bag in front of him, a concerned look playing on her face.

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”she asked.

It took him a second to realise what she meant.  
He winced. “God yeah I don’t even know I’m doing it. Sorry. Let’s get going shall we?”

He gave her a wink and she giggled as the TV was switched off and the door shut behind them.

\---------------

Mrs Hudson was a queen, John had decided.

Mary was out of town visiting friends and he’d come down with the most horrendous head cold.

As he resigned himself to a night huddled up on the couch in misery watching re runs of 80’s cop shows, he heard a knock at the door and dear Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway with a bag full of goodies like the angel she was.

She brought him one of her blankets, floral and smelled like lavender, special remedy tea and a few other tablets and lozenges that he couldn’t believe they didn’t already have in the medicine cupboard.

“Mary called me. She told me you were feeling rotten. I told her, my herbal tea will clear you right up. How are you now dear?”

John sipped at the tea slowly and pulled the fleecy blanket further up his lap.  
“Still dreadful, but this is lovely. Nice to have someone to chat to.”

“Oh well I was just sitting at home. I’d already emptied the cupboards and cleaned out the cooker. I was just finishing off hoovering the upstairs carpet when my phone went off. I nearly knocked that wretched skull off the mantelpiece again, honestly you think it’d be tidier now…. John?”

He looked up, surprised as she said his name. He’d stopped following what she said after the carpet and by her expression, he could tell how he must look.

His reflection flickered in the clear honey coloured tea in front of him and he saw how gray and empty his face was.

Clearing his throat he looked round to see her sit beside him and put an arm around his shoulder.

“I know you’re not the emotional type, but you can talk to me you know.”

Swallowing hard, he put his free arm around her too and flashed her a winning smile. “Don’t worry about me, I just… sometimes it’s hard…. remembering..”

“Oh don’t I know it. Nothing feels the same now.” she hummed softly.

Then just as suddenly she rose to her feet. “I better be getting back now, but if you need anything else just give me a ring alright?”

“Thanks again Mrs H I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

As she shut the door, he lay back against the cushions and breathed in slowly. He closed his eyes and repeated the words in his head over and over again until they settled into his bones, all the while his fingers still lingering on his phone.

\---------------

The sky had very quickly become dark and the sudden downpour that followed was horrific. The wind whipped pedestrians back and forth while blinding them with the sleeting rain and John had been forced to duck into the nearest café just to get his bearings back.

He wiped the rain off his face and dried his hair as much as possible with a serviette the kind shop assistant had offered him. Once he felt moderately less sodden he turned back to look at the downpour and immediately decided it would be a good idea to sit down for a while and order something hot.

The café was typical fare; full English breakfast, paninis and a few different choices of cake.

He ordered a coffee and a scone before settling into the plastic back chair right next to the full wall window.

The rain was coming down in rivulets and he could barely make out the people beyond it. He saw the blurred outline of a young girl in a bright pink jacket trying desperately to close an umbrella that was inside out. An older couple holding hands with a child, all three of them running for shelter. A tall man in a long coat walking hurriedly while fiddling with his phone.

He was roused by the sound of the cup and plate being placed gently on his table and the pretty waitress asking him if he’d like anything else. Shaking his head, he sighed contentedly and began buttering his scone.

The wind howled relentlessly outside and every time a new customer came in John was hit with the gust. Bad place to sit, but he was settled now.

He supposed he was little nosey, liked watching people going about their daily routines and trying to guess where they were going and what they were doing and how their live were compared to his.

That would explain why he always chose the window seat. Apart from the other times, when it had been someone else's choice for the same reasons.

Sat there so he could observe, deduce and file away all those tidbits of information for later. Maybe for a case.

His phone was in his hands before he knew what he was doing.

“This café reminds me of that one we went to in Bristol. I don’t know why, maybe because it was raining then too.”  
Like an itch he couldn’t help scratching, he sent off another text immediately afterwards.

“You should be here, I can’t deduce any of these people. The waitress has scuff marks only on one heel. What does that mean?”

After the last one, he pressed his phone down onto the table with the palm of his hand and tried to concentrate on his breathing.

As he did so he accidentally pressed another button and the screen lit up with a photograph.

The image was old but it still held the same sentiment. The two of them side by side, neither looking at the camera but instead looking at the goat that was nibbling his friend’s coat, John doubled up in laughter, the other staring aghast at the creature.

Licking his lips, he turned the screen off and took a long swig of his coffee, making a stern mental note that this really had to stop.

\---------------

Baker Street seemed a lot further away than it used to. Or maybe it was just that John was so very tired.

An early morning at the clinic followed by a later night out; drinks at the pub, or was it, he can’t remember right now but there was definitely alcohol involved. All he remembers is Mary was not too pleased with him when he rolled into bed with her and she reminded him he had to get up early to go to Baker Street and get…… shit.

What was he supposed to get?

This is perfect, he thought. All he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and nurse his hangover but now he was in a taxi on the way to the flat to pick up something he couldn’t remember.

It took him a moment to realise the cabbie was asking for his fare. He paid and promptly exited the cab all the while gazing at the old familiar door in front of him.

The knocker was skewiff as always. He was always happy to see how little even the street itself had changed in the past few years.

As he made his way up he shouted a quick hello to Mrs Hudson who replied with a ‘Hello dear, how are you?” that he forgot to reply to as he stepped through the doorway into the old room.

The floor was still spinning a little and the walls weren’t being very cooperative either. Without any thought he threw himself down in his old chair and closed his eyes.

The smell of tobacco and old chemicals still stunk out the carpet, no matter how many times they’d tried cleaning it. That clock on the mantelpiece still missed a tick every 4 seconds too.

He sunk back into the comfortable cushions and rubbed his palm over the worn threads.

Good times were had in this flat, he thought briefly. Funny how it all changed.

A bittersweet ache ran through his chest at that thought and even in his addled state he knew why. 

“Why did it have to change,” he typed at the keyboard that was suddenly in front of him, “Things were good. Was it my fault?”

As he moved his thumb across to send the message he stopped and rubbed at his eyes. 

“Idiot. You’re being a complete idiot. Just try to remember what you came for.” he thought.

Slowly hoisting himself up he moved into the kitchen and starting shuffling through various papers and empty flasks for something, anything that would jolt back the words Mary had said to him.

As he knocked over a glass cylinder, a few papers scattered to the floor and he cursed. He picked up one of them only to see the numbers 1895.

As he separated them from the pile he was met with printed screen shots of his blog. Annotated screen shots at that. The sod had the nerve to correct what he deemed incorrect or embellishments in his blog. He already left comments telling John exactly what he felt but no he had to go another step didn’t he.

John laughed in spite of himself and finished the text he’d begun,

“You were such a git, an absolute sod. Arsehole of the worst variety.”  
He felt his hands shaking and he bit his lip harder than necessary.

“Why aren’t you here, why did it happen, why won’t you answer me, why woul…”

Before he could finish he threw his phone across the room, enraged. 

**“STOP IT. Just stop it.”**

Then, he was silent.  
The phone hadn’t clattered. It hadn’t even made a soft thump on the chair. Instead there was a slap, like it had been plucked from the air.

He turned slowly to look behind him to see a leather gloved hand gripping his phone.

_“John?”_

He stared for a moment, eyes wide but still comprehending, before he stumbled forward. The taller man rushed to him and held him his arm firmly. “Are you alright?”

“Yes yes, I’m fine.. jesus Sherlock….” he breathed, leaning on the counter for balance.

Once everything stopped swirling around his feet, he looked up and smiled at his friend.

“You gave me a fright.”

The detective smirked and sturdied his companion before pulling away. “You look quite frightening yourself.”

He laughed, “Late night, still feeling the drink. Where were you?”

“Lestrade called last night, I was out helping him track down a few drug dealers.”  
“Bit dull for you?”

“It was but I owed him a favour” he rolled his eyes.

The two men stood awkwardly in the kitchen for a while, neither saying anything of note, the younger one swaying on his heels a little.

“I’m erm…. sorry about that.” The shorter one coughed, “It still happens…. occasionally.”

Sherlock quirked a smile, “Can’t be helped, I’ve only been back a few months. You’re not the only one. Molly knew I was alive and yet I'm told she still jumps if I answer her texts."

"Is that why you don't text me back?"  
"God, no. I don't text you back if you're being boring."

"Cheers _mate.._." he hissed.

"It's true. I’m also worried I’ll give Mrs Hudson a heart attack the next time I pop round without warning.”

“Worried?”

“Well… mildly concerned. She does make me tea.”

They both giggled.

“Did you come to fetch me then?”

A look of realisation swept over John’s face, ‘YES, yes that was it. I’d forgotten what I came for. Mary said I had to come get you. Or… you were coming to get me, or I was going to get something from you…”

“It’s fine. I rang her asking for your assistance on this case, but since you aren’t 100% you won’t be of any help, so I suggest you go home, rest and come back to me when you’re more useful.”

“Oh, how you do care.” he replied dripping with sarcasm.

“I am as I ever was. No that much has changed I’m afraid.” Sherlock smiled while shrugging off his coat.

Turning to leave he nodded in the detective’s direction, fully planning to return when he was feeling more human.

“John..”  
Sherlock held out a hand to him, “Your phone.”

He took it from the other man’s hand and turned it over a few times in his own, a grim expression on his face.

His trepidation did not go unnoticed and moving fluidly, Sherlock came closer into his space, speaking in a low voice.

“I… I am here John. I am still here. Whenever you think I might not be.”

John looked down at his hands and answered softly, “I know. I know.”

He took a deep breath and shook his head.

“Start answering your bloody texts you clod.”

The baritone laugh that followed warmed him to the core, “You mean that ridiculous murdered surgeon and the security guard? Please, it took me longer to finish my breakfast than to solve those two.”

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me, And since when do you have breakfast?”

“Since I started getting hungry, what kind of question is that? Anyway, the surgeon, that’s probably the easier one of the two… first you must consider that he had several wives….”

The morning wore on into the afternoon very slowly.

More coffee was drunk, painkillers were taken with water, calls were made and ignored and all the while John sat.

Sat listening to the seemingly unending reams of information and words that flew from his old flatmates mouth in a passionate and fiery haze, and willing himself, trying his best to make sure this time, finally this time, he wouldn’t forget.

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

**Sherlock Holmes is back.**

**Author's Note:**

> Written because despite the fact that S3 is over and I've dealt with my emotions, I'm still not over the fact that Sherlock is actually HOME!
> 
> FYI Because someone asked, there isn't anything mentally wrong with John in this fic, apart from his in-show problems, he's just having a tough time coping with Sherlock's return so we're all happy and smiles ok? Good. (Though if you want to read it that way go ahead you angst fiend you!)


End file.
